


What You Take With You

by BritaniaVance



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Awkward Acquaintances to Friends to Lovers, Awkward Flirting, Drabbles, F/M, Slow Burn, based on party banter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:40:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22169551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BritaniaVance/pseuds/BritaniaVance
Summary: A collection of conversations between Merrill and Carver as they adventure at Hawke's side and beyond.
Relationships: Carver Hawke/Merrill, Female Hawke/Isabela
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24





	1. Party Banter

It was hard for Merrill not to get distracted, to not have her eyes drawn by a stray glimpse of foreign fabric hanging to dry from a window, for her head to turn as she sniffed the air at some unfamiliar scent, though she tried not to investigate the fouler smells as deeply as she did the sweeter, more savory ones, like when they’d walk past the bakeries in High Town or stroll past the cramped tenements of Lowtown. 

She was straggling behind the others, as usual, her attention caught like cloth on a thorn, when a warm, firm hand gripped her elbow, gently nudging her in the opposite direction from where she was about to venture.

“Oh, pardon me, I-” she stammered, afraid she’d stepped on someone’s boots or otherwise offended some passerby - as she was wont to do in Kirkwall since she’d arrived it seemed - but instead she was met with Carver’s wide blue eyes, bright like the sky but tinged with grey like an oncoming storm.

“Best not get lost again,” he laughed lightly, a smile spiriting over his lips before he quickly swallowed it with a purposeful cough. “Can’t have you roaming around the docks again like last week.”

Merrill blushed a bit, embarrassed, but found herself more thankful than anything.

“I didn’t mean to, I just-” she trailed off, her eyes wandering already again as Carver set her right and began walking, careful to stay close and steer her towards the others, “There’s just… so…  _ much.” _

She couldn’t put it into words. Literally and figuratively. There were only so many words she knew in Elvhen that spoke of the city, things she didn’t have words for in her native tongue but knew were somehow lost. And even with the trade tongue, she was learning new words everyday, especially from Varric. 

Carver only laughed, but not the usual laugh Merrill was used to when it came to her. Instead of his usual brooding self, he seemed almost…  _ amused?  _

“You’re not like other girls, are you Merrill?”

“Of course not,” she replied, “I’m an elf.”

Carver laughed at that as well, but with even more warmth this time.

“That you are,” he said. “That you are.”

* * *

In the days and weeks to follow, there was no shortage of things for Merrill to look at. But whether they were in the city, meandering Dark Town or High Town, or testing their luck in the Gallows, Merrill often found herself preoccupied with some of her travel companions… well, some more than others.

Varric told the best stories, even when Merrill hardly knew what he was talking about, namely when he’d mention anything Dwarven. Whether it be about trade deals gone sour with Orzammar or about the Coterie, she always found herself enraptured regardless, always eager to learn more and hear what happened next. Fenris always spoke too low for her to hear him clearly, though she got the impression he didn’t trust her, but it was difficult to look away from his markings if she couldn’t help it. She was getting better at it, though, out of a sort of fear and unspoken respect, even if she didn’t agree with his view on mages and found herself holding her tongue around the man. But when it came to Carver, well, her interest was a bit… simpler.

It was hard not to watch him when they fought, swinging his sword with such precision despite its size. As a mage, she always kept back, casting spells from a distance so as to hide herself but also to gain the advantage, but from her position it was easy to watch Carver as he moved, carving a path for the others through a crowd of thugs or the unruly underbrush on the coast. It was no wonder his arms were so sculpted, and she wondered if that was perhaps why the man never wore sleeves.

Carver paused, after heaving his long sword over his shoulder to rest there for a while, his eyes lingering on Merrill while the others began assessing their wounds and the overall damage - and it was only then that Merrill realized she was staring.

“How did you learn…” Merrill began, scrambling for footing in a possible conversation, lest it seem like she  _ was _ staring (because she was) and more like she meant to say something instead. “ _ Swording?” _

Carver only wrinkled his brow, confused, though he walked closer to Merrill as if he’d not heard her properly.

“Er,  _ swording? _ ” His eyes went wide, almost worried.

“Those things,” she gestured with her staff as she cleaned it, “Those things you do with a sword. It looks tricky.”

“Takes a lot of practice,” he said, though he still seemed unsure of where the conversation was headed. 

“Well, you… seem good at it.” Merrill floundered, looking to her staff now, desperate to look at anything other than Carver as the embarrassment was sure to plaster itself over her expression. “One day maybe you’ll be the best sworder in Kirkwall.”

Isabela, nearby, snickered, and Carver retorted, exasperated, “Merrill-”

“I said something wrong again, didn’t I?” she panicked, “Maybe, I’ll just… stop talking.”

Isabela did her best to hide her smile, snorting still, though turned away. Carver only turned red.

“No Merrill, I mean,” he sighed again before adding quietly, “I knew what you meant.”

“Oh… well, good,” she said, turning her attention to her staff again. “I think.”

Her cheeks turned pink, she could tell, her face flush and her embarrassment rising. Once they were walking along with the others, Isabela fell into step with her, watching her for a reaction before she finally spoke.

“You’re doing just fine, kitten,” she purred, running a hand through her short hair, “It’s refreshing being around you, you know.”

“Really?” Merrill answered, still feeling sheepish, “You’re not just saying that...:”

Isabela chuckled softly, her eyes warm and friendly.

“Of course not,” she replied, “You’re different, yes, but I think he likes that.”

“He-? I-” Merrill stammered, her eyes immediately seeking out Carver, afraid he was in earshot.

“Now  _ that _ , kitten, you might want to tone down a bit,” Isabela said, laughter more eminent in her voice, “But I can help with that. Well, if you’d  _ like _ .”

“Er,” Merrill never took her eyes off Carver, as if finally allowing herself to wonder what was there and why this feeling crept over her whenever he was around. “I think I’d like that, yes.”

Isabela smiled and linked her arm with Merrill’s, making her feel warm and safe.

* * *

“So, there I was-” Varric said, as could only be expected, midway through a game of Wicked Grace as he always did - his way of distracting them all, Merrill had come to realize.

She was trying to focus on her cards and guess at what hands the others had by their faces when another player joined their table, grabbing a nearby chair from an empty table before straddling it backwards beside her. That someone being Ainsleigh Hawke, who shot Merrill a friendly smile before draping a warm hand on her arm, bringing her out of her reverie - only Merrill didn’t mind the distraction at all, always happy to see Hawke, her first friend, and happy that Hawke was always glad to see her, too.

“‘Bout time you showed up,” Varric said, none too cross to have his story interrupted, “Pull up a drink while you’re at it, we can re-shuffle and start again.”

“ _ Reshuffle my ass, _ ” Isabela said, pulling her chair in closer, “We’re  _ finishing  _ this round when it’s good and over.”

“Oooh I bet you have a good hand,” Merrill relished, realizing she’d given Isabela away and that Varric already knew she was going to win a little too late. “Oh, sorry.”

Varric smiled and Isabela laughed, throwing her cards down.

“Hell  _ right _ I have a good hand,” Isabela surrendered, “And I’m taking the pool while we’re at it, whether you forfeit or no.”

No one protested as Isabela swept her earnings into her open palm, shoveling the rest of the silver into a secret pocket lining her inner left boot. Hawke ordered another round of drinks, and Merrill was feeling giddy, alert, and happy to be around friends.  _ Friends.  _ She’d never really had those before.

She smiled as Norah passed her another mug of ale, the girl’s eyes flickering for just a moment before returning the gesture.

“She’ll come around,” Isabela reassured her, putting a hand on Merrill’s forearm, “The alienage may not be far away but you’re still a rare sight for this hellhole.”

“I guess it could be worse,” Merrill shrugged, “I’ve been called worse things  _ in _ the alienage. At least here no one seems to pay me any mind.”

Isabela only smiled at her softly, almost sorry for her, but the pirate queen knew better than to underestimate Merrill, and Merrill was thankful for that.

“Oh you sweet thing,” she said, divvying out the cards again, “You’re stronger than I could ever be.”

Part of Merrill doubted that but another part of her wanted to believe it, and let herself settle on the latter.

“I’m surprised you’re brother isn’t here,” Varric said, across the table, not privy to Merrill and Isabela’s conversation. “Plus the bloke owes be five sovereigns.”

“I’d imagine that’s exactly why he isn’t here,” Hawke  _ tsked _ , rolling her eyes as she took a long, deep drag from her flagon.

“I can’t have my little brother wasting  _ all _ my coin, can I?” Ainsleigh teased after a moment, smiling at the table now, “Plus Carver seems less interested in the tavern here than he did in Lothering.”

“Did he go there often?” Isabela asked, suddenly interested, though she looked to Merrill as she spoke instead of Ainsleigh.

“It was the only thing to do in Lothering,” she began, shrugging.

“It’s the only thing to do  _ here! _ ” Anders interjected from the other side of the table, but no one seemed to listen as Hawke continued.

“I think a few of the local girls liked him there. He’d always get free ale and bread somehow,” she continued, “There was one girl,  _ Peaches _ , I think her name was,” Ainsleigh laughed, crinkling her nose, “She  _ loved  _ him. I used to make fun of him for hanging around her, but he never seemed too bothered. She even wrote us here once. I don’t think Carver’s glanced twice at that letter.”

Isabela nudged Merrill in the arm, inciting an  _ ow! _ as she asked “No one catches his eye here, eh?”

Ainsleigh was about to take another sip of ale but stopped, mid-way, the brim of her flagon almost meeting her lips when she glanced side-long at Merrill, smirking, “No one that works at the Hanged Man, at least.”

“Well invite him out for cards, next time,” Isabela smiled, sharing a knowing look with Ainsleigh as Merrill sulked, embarrassed but… excited? Elated? She couldn’t be sure. “Varric could use the sovereigns, if it means buying a new  _ vest _ -”

“Hey! My vest is  _ just fine _ , sweet heart, and if I may suggest anything, would maybe wearing some  _ pants _ hurt you?”

“Yes,” Isabela said, smiling at Merrill as she raised her glass for cheers, Merrill obliging, laughing all the while, “Yes, I daresay it would.”

* * *

Sometimes they’d venture outside the city, crawl along the Wounded Coast, the sand slowing their pace down enough to look at the lush greenery contrasted by the grey waters always threatening a storm. They might venture out to the mountains, precariously close to Merrill’s clan, but Hawke would always keep a mind to warn her first, to allow Merrill time to turn back or ready herself whatever their predicament may demand. Merrill would always insist they press forward, knowing her way around these parts, at least partially, for how little she’d actually been there.

Now, they toed the line between the coast and the mountains, the Bone Pit not from where they were. 

“If we veer right we’ll come upon a thatch of embrium, if you have need of it,” Merrill said, pausing the others with the sound of her voice on the salty air. “You need it for potions, yes?”

Ainsleigh smiled, appreciative and grateful, steering the others towards Merrill’s direction as Carver fell into step with her as they continued on.

“Your clan must have traveled far, Merrill,” he said, his voice low but casual. The sound of her name made her cheeks grow hot, though the warmth of the coast was a good enough excuse as any for that, should he notice. “I’d like to think we at least have Ferelden in common.”

“Oh, right,” she smiled, looking away for a moment, “There are no blackberries, here,” she added mournfully, “And there were songbirds with black caps on their heads. I never saw Lothering, though.”

“Where did you travel, then? The Bannorn? South Reach?”

Merrill paused, surprised Carver said more than one thing before moving on, seemingly interested in what she had to say. 

“South Reach, yes. We stayed in the Brecelian Forest for a time, out to the East.”

“I heard it was lovely there,” Carver said, though he nearly choked on the word  _ lovely _ , “Lots of… trees.”

Merrill stifled a laugh, casting a sideward glance at Carver as he walked alongside her, now equally blushing though valiantly trying to hide it.

“Yes, plenty of trees,” she agreed, a tinge of laughter on her voice though not enough to hint that she was teasing Carver, because she wasn’t, “And blue-belled flowers. Crystal Grace, I think they’re called.”

“I think they grew around Lothering,” Carver added, growing solemn, “Bethany loved them. She’d beg me to take her out to the caves on the edge of town, out by the farmland that stretched beyond the old Tevene road that crossed through the fields. Father had told her where to pick them. With Spindleweed it made some salve, but with Rashvine it made this other thing, something they’d paint along the house…”

“Sounds like a fire resistant tonic,” Merrill mused, “Your sister was a mage?”

Her voice was quiet now, probing. Carver nodded.

“Like Ainsleigh,” he sighed, “And like my father.”

“Ah,” was all she could manage in response, not sure of what else to say, suddenly realizing how little she knew of the Hawkes, how guarded they were despite Ainsleigh’s warm welcome and guiding hand, and Carver’s occasional willingness to help when his moodiness allowed it. 

“You remind me a bit of her, y’know.”

“Your sister?”

Merrill didn’t know what to make of that, but the way Carver looked at her sidelong made her insides flip and tumble as she awaited his answer.

“Well, maybe a little. She was always cautious, so careful, she-” he paused on an intake of breath, as if remembering her was still a little too difficult. “She was the sweetest person I knew.”

Carver looked ahead at Ainsleigh as she led the rest of the group as always, as if wondering whether she could hear, before turning to Merrill again.

“Ainsleigh looks like our mum, a spitting image of her when she was young actually, even while we were growing up,” he said, “But she’s just like my father, in spirit at least. Bethany  _ looked  _ like father though, dark hair, tan skin. I got a bit of both, looking like both and neither, I guess.”

“Ah,” Merrill said, still unsure of what to say in response and if there was anything she really  _ could _ say, more honored that Carver was sharing any of this with her in the first place. But it all seemed to make a little more sense now, why Carver felt so out-of-place, even among his own family. The designated black sheep.

“I think she might have come to trust you, too, in time,” Carver said, perhaps trying to convince himself as much as Merrill, for whatever it was worth. “My sister, I mean.”

“So mages,” Merrill began, unsure of how to continue, “You’re not wholly against them, no? What with your sister… er,  _ sisters _ .”

Carver only laughed, nervous.

“Not, overall no,” he said, “They’re like anyone else. If I feel I can trust them, what difference does it make?”

Merrill had a feeling that wasn’t as easy as Carver was making it sound, but she saw the way he looked at Anders, they way his eyes moved whenever the ex-Warden was around. Perhaps it was his occasionally easy arrogance, his assertion that he’d had it the worst of all of them, a mood Carver often shared though she doubted he’d ever admit it.

“Well if it means anything to you,” Merrill said, wringing her hands, watching as her red nails caught the light as they moved. “I trust you, too.”

Carver was silent, his face growing pink in the slightest.

“For a human, I mean,” she added, unsure.

Carver forced a laugh, “I’m no longer a shem, then?”

“Maybe if I’m angry,” she said, though she smiled, “Or mildly cross.”

And Carver smiled, too.

* * *

“Do you miss it?” Merrill asked one day, catching Carver alone as they perused the stalls of Darktown. “Ferelden?”

Carver paused, looking her over before smiling bitterly as he answered, as if their conversation from the other day had only just been bookmarked, its page now turned open again without any interruption, “I miss the dogs barking. There are hardly any dogs here.”

“The only one I know is yours,” Merrill replied, thoughtful, “He’s sweet, though.”

“That he is,” Carver laughed, “I wish I’d appreciated the other mabari in Ferelden while we were there, it feels so… cold without them here. Do  _ you  _ miss it? Ferelden? Your clan?”

He was gentle in his asking, but almost eager, as if he were thankful that Merrill spoke first.

“I miss the Halla, they were so gentle. Such noble creatures,” she said, “If only I could bring one with me somehow.”

“If we found one, maybe we could keep it for you. Er, somehow,” Carver offered, scrunching up his face as the logic got in his way while he spoke. Merrill only smiled.

“That’s sweet of you to say,” she said, “I doubt any Halla would enjoy living  _ in _ Kirkwall. But… maybe someday.”

“Maybe someday,” Carver repeated, a question apparent on his face though he didn’t voice it, choosing instead to fall into comfortable silence at Merrill’s side.


	2. Grander Gestures

“I know what you’re going to say, Hawke, and I don’t want to hear it!” Merrill began as she walked from her study to the front room of her hovel once she heard heavy footsteps on the threshold, “I’m perfectly capable of-” she paused, seeing not Ainsleigh but her brother in the doorway, instead.

“ _Oh_ \- Carver, it’s you,” she said after a brief pause, surprised, as if Carver didn’t already perfectly well know who he was.

“Are you alright?” he asked, rushing over to her and looking around the room, frantically, “Did they… take anything?”

Merrill realized that Carver had only been to her house once, the day she moved in, having done most of the heavy lifting. She’d collected so much over the past few months, and luckily none of it seemed taken, just… disturbed. As if they’d intended to make a mess and not much else.

“I don’t think so,” she answered after a moment, wondering what Carver thought of her place, the potions ingredients and their countless bottles, the skulls and crystals littered about and about a thousand candles crowding every available surface. “I think they were looking for something.”

“Is all of… this…” Carver gestured vaguely about the apartment, at a loss for words, one of his hands mussing his hair as he searched for the right phrasing of whatever it was he was thinking. “Elven?” was all he came up with.

“Er, pardon?”

“Elven? I mean, could this all be construed as elf stuff to, say, any other human? Or a city elf. Not specifically tied to…”

The color drained from Merrill’s face as the realization dawned on her, “ _Magic_?”

Carver nodded, meeting her eyes with a worried gaze, his brow furrowed with concern. The Templars were always a concern for Ainsleigh, and years of worry now showed on Carver’s face.

“Maybe, perhaps, but not all of it, no-”

“In here?”

“Mostly in the back room, where I sleep.”

“And they didn’t go there, did they? Or-”

“No, no they didn’t.”

Carver nodded, taking Merrill’s answer for fact, rubbing his chin as he looked about the room again. He paused at the front door after circling around, walking over to its shattered splinters and kneeling before them to get a better look. With a careful eye, he scrutinized the wreckage, keen on looking before touching. After a moment, he looked up, beckoning Merrill over. Cautiously, she obliged, kneeling beside him once she reached the remnants of her front door.

“See this?” he said, his voice low, serious but gentle, “What does this look like to you?”

Merrill looked at where Carver was pointing, shaking her head.

“I’d say maybe magic but it seems… too messy. Reckless, almost. It certainly wasn’t an axe, then? A sword perhaps?”

“A hammer, maybe, but even then,” Carver mused, “You didn’t see them, did you?”

“No,” Merrill said, shaking her head, “They were gone before I could reach the front room. The door was already in ruins.”

“I wonder…” Carver started, though he never seemed to finish his thought. “Perhaps it’s nothing. Gamlen’s place was broken into a few times, once when he first took us in, and a couple times after. The first was someone looking to scare him into paying a gambling debt. The second was just a new gang in the neighborhood, likely an initiation rite or just… to scare us, I guess, make us think they meant business.”

“You think that may be what happened here?”

“Perhaps,” he said, now looking up at her mournfully, “The other elves still don’t take kindly to you, do they?”

His voice was gentle, careful, so unlike the way he often spoke around the others, genuine concern coloring his features as he watched her patiently for an answer.

Merrill grew quiet, but kept her face still though sincere, shaking her head. Carver’s eyes were so blue right now, no hint of grey or silver. Just… blue. He watched her carefully, unsure of what to say, perhaps out of fear of saying the wrong thing.

“Well, you’re welcome with me,” Carver said as he stood, stammering as he corrected himself, “With _us_ , I mean. Ainsleigh understands what it’s like to stand out, to be alone. And she’d never let anything happen to you, you know that?”

Merrill stood along with him, realizing now that they were standing so close but neither of them made to move away.

“I know you can hold your own, but-” Carver stumbled over his words the more he spoke, but continued nonetheless, “It helps to have a friend. Someone who’s got your back.”

Merrill wasn’t sure if Carver meant her or Ainsleigh or if he was somehow talking about himself, ever in his sister’s shadow but always by her side regardless. But the way he looked at her, his expression and his demeanor so changed from the way he always was around the others, moody and brooding, always cracking wise… it made her feel that maybe, just maybe, there was something different about her, about the way he _was_ around her, the way he felt… like she did.

“I appreciate that,” she said, her voice quieter than she’d intended, soft, “It… really means a lot.”

“Good,” he replied, watching her expression. “I’m glad.”

He smiled, though tentatively, unsure of what to say next, but Merrill didn’t mind the momentary silence, finding it enough to feel the warmth coming off of him with Carver standing so close.

“I could help you fix it,” he offered eventually, coughing purposefully before moving towards the open door frame. “Or at least… get you a new one.”

Merrill laughed, imagining the two of them piecing the splinters together and calling it a door. Carver smiled wide at that, perhaps grateful the awkwardness dissipated and Merrill didn’t seem so morose.

“A new one would be great,” she said.

* * *

“Sorry that took so bloody long,” Carver eventually greeted as he lugged an entire door into Merrill’s living room. He placed it at an angle against the wall before setting himself down on the floor right where he stood, completely out of breath, “Prick overcharged me _and_ the cart he lent me to transport it broke before I was even halfway here.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to be a bother,” Merrill worried, wringing her hands as she tried to find some way to make herself useful. She had the tools needed to put the door back up, but judging by Carver’s current state she figured it best to wait a bit. “Er, do you want some tea, maybe?”

“Tea would be _great_ ,” Carver sighed, relieved, “And don’t worry about it, I’m happy to help.”

Merrill still felt awful, but it made sense that Carver went to fetch her a new door from the carpenter and not her - the docks were so far away and she was always getting lost there, only ending up there when she meant to end up someplace else. Plus, someone needed to guard her place, keep her apartment safe and make sure her magic things remained undiscovered.

“Where _is_ Hawke, anyway?” Merrill eventually asked as she set some water in the kettle, placing it in the hearth. “Not that I don’t appreciate your help, but it’s unlike her to be absent when even the slightest of things goes wrong.”

Carver chuckled darkly, perhaps seeing the truth in her words.

“True,” he replied, “I believe she’s settling some old family business with mother, something about our lost estate.”

“Estate?” she asked, placing the loose tea into two separate silk pouches as the water warmed to a boil. “Your family has an estate? Those are the fancy houses, right?”

Carver smiled, looking up at her now as he grew comfortable on the floor, sitting cross-legged beside her new door. 

“Yes, real fancy,” he confirmed with his usual dark humor, a playful sarcasm in his words, “I’m no fan of Hightown but I will say it’s cleaner, at least. If she can manage to reinstate the Amell name, it might at least be better for my back.” Carver stretched now, straightening his shoulder blades until his spine extended, several discs cracking with the movement, “ _Andraste’s tits_ I hate that bunk bed.”

Merrill giggled at the word - _tits_ \- repeating it over in her head as she checked the water to see that it was stirring, the kettle boiling and whistling any moment now.

“Must be important,” Merrill mused, “Otherwise I’d imagine Hawke would come knocking down what part of the door there is left.”

At that, Carver barked out a laugh and straightened as he stood up again, a hand clasping his lower back as the stiffness dissolved bit by bit. 

“Well, perhaps, if she had known about it,” Carver admitted, looking at Merrill again, sheepish now. “I didn’t even think to tell her. When I heard there was an accident in the alienage I came straight away.”

“W-wait, really?” Merrill’s face flushed, a blushing red she could tell. 

Carver’s face turned pink as well before he could hide it, turning suddenly to inspect the door again, this time measuring from a distance whether it would fit in the frame.

“Do you suppose it will fit? It’s not too big?” Merrill asked as she followed his gaze, almost as eager to change the subject despite how happy the thought that Carver came running to see her made her feel.

Carver was about to respond, before an expression of utter embarrassment crossed his face, and Merrill snorted. _Too big._

“Okay, now _that_ was dirty,” she burst out laughing now as she recalled her words, “If Isabela were here, she’d say-”

“ _That’s what she said_ ,” Carver finished, laughing along now, though still seeming shy about it despite being seemingly unable to hide his smile. “But in all honesty, it _better_ fit or I’ll … Maker, I’m too bloody exhausted to make threats.”

The kettle started to whistle softly as Carver lowered himself into one of Merrill’s two chairs, looking around the room as if he’d never seen the place before, too nervous to watch Merrill out of fear of - what exactly?

Painfully aware of herself, Merrill did her best to ease the kettle out of the hearth using a thick cloth for protection, gently pouring the steaming water over two pouches of Spindleweed tea, mixed generously with rose hips and crushed dried berries.

“You don’t just use magic for that?” Carver asked after a while, clearly watching her now. 

“For _this?_ ” Merrill almost laughed, “Waste of energy, I think. Though my arms aren’t exactly the strongest and this kettle _is_ cast iron, so-” she sighed as she finally placed the thing on the edge of the fireplace and made to sat down across from Carver, the fact that they were sitting alone over tea of all things, at her house, only now just dawning on her, “It’s not such a bad idea.”

“Ainsleigh always uses magic for that kind of stuff,” Carver chuckled, “Mum hates it. Says it’s an affront to the Maker.”

“She’s warmed a cup of mead for me once or twice now that you mention it,” Merrill said, thinking back to a few nights they’d all spent at the Hanged Man, “Or given me a thimble-full of whiskey to find it already hot enough for tea.”

Carver nodded.

“That’s her speciality,” he said with a dark humor, watching the steam rise from his cup, “Using magic in the open, but not exactly where you’d expect. If you can believe it, she once used magic to cool a flask of water while we were talking to Ser Cullen as he rambled on about mages running amok.”

“Are you serious?!” Merrill _tsked_ , knowing it was just like Hawke but growing incensed just the same. “I try so hard to keep it hidden, it’s hard not to let it slip out. Whenever there are others around I try to do my best to keep myself hidden or just use my staff like a walking stick, bonking unsuspecting bandits on the back of the head. It was so different with the Dalish, but even here the elves don’t seem to take kindly to, well, _anything_.”

“What do you mean?” 

Carver leaned over the table, his elbows propped up on the scrubbed wood as he watched her intently. Merril’s breath caught for a moment, clasping her cup in an attempt to anchor her to the present, despite the fact that the cup was piping hot.

“I thought they’d want to know more about me, about what I _know_ about the Dalish, where we all come from. They’re so far removed from what little we know of our history, but with the tree here I thought… I thought they’d want to know what the clans had fought so hard to recover. But they seem to think I’m worse for it, as if I think I’m better than them. But that’s not it at all, just-”

“Do you wish you’d stayed?” Carver asked, “That you’d never left the Dalish?”

“Oh, no, that’s not it at all,” she answered almost too quickly, testing the tea to see if it was still hot. It was, but she was too caught up in appearing unbothered that she took a sip anyway, “The Dalish weren’t that welcoming either, after a time.”

“Your own people?”

Merrill shook her head.

“It’s complicated,” she sighed, hands still wrapped protectively around her cup, “Humans aren’t the only ones with reservations about -”

She was about to say _blood magic_ when she realized she still didn’t have a proper front door, the blanket she’d used as a makeshift barrier suddenly blowing into the house with a gust of wind.

“ _Blimey_ , I forgot,” Carver said, jumping up from the table and almost upending the tea Merrill had just made. “We should set this right before anyone- y’know, just in case.”

Carver danced around the word magic, but instead of saying anything out loud he instead headed for the door he’d dragged all the way from the docks without another word. Merrill only nodded and joined him, getting what few tools she had from the chest she kept on the far wall - a gift from Varric.

Swiftly, silently, Carver took the mass of wood to the front of Merrill’s hovel, extending a hand when he needed another tool, another screw, or just another eye to make sure things were level. When all was said and done, Carver tested the thing, swinging it open and slamming it shut, only to do the same all over again.

“May I?” Merrill cut in after a few moments. 

Carver balked for a moment before stepping back and letting her some space. She breathed in deeply, feeling the air steep in her lungs, before she extended a hand towards the closed door and muttered a spell. Tendrils of red light sprouted from her palm, spreading and settling over the wood before dissipating within an instant. She opened her eyes again just as the light from the incantation faded into the wood grain, becoming one with the frame.

“What was that?” Carver asked, his voice husky, somewhere between a whisper and his normal speaking volume.

“No one will see it,” Merrill assured, “At least, not from the other side of the door anyway.”

She rubbed her hands on her pant legs, her palms still tingling with the magic.

“It’s a ward, against intruders. But a subtle one. If anyone tries to break in again, they simply… won’t be able to.”

She pursed her lips, looking at the door as if it might assure her, too, that she was safe. 

“You hadn’t done that when you moved in, I’m assuming,” Carver continued after a moment, not accusatory, though she could hear the gears turning as he voiced his question.

“I thought they’d accept me, that I would be all right. I didn’t think I’d need it.” Merrill sighed, turning to him now, “It’s okay though. I’ll manage.”

She attempted to smile, but wasn’t sure if she was convincing.

* * *

“Carver!” Varric bellowed across the bar when the lad so much as stepped over the threshold of the Hanged Man, “About time you showed up.”

Carver rolled his eyes, sulking as he walked over to Varric and patted him on the back, “You know I’d rather owe you than my sister.”

“Whatever works for me,” Varric said, smiling as he played another card.

Carver locked eyes with Merrill when he saw her, sitting opposite of Varric and only now within view of her that he was taking a seat. He chose the empty chair catty-corner from her, nodding in greeting to first Merrill, then Isabela and Anders, and Fenris making a rare appearance. Carver watched on as the others finished out the current game with his arms crossed casually, occasionally placing his bets on who had the winning hand this round, before finally settling on Merrill as the predicted winner.

“I think you’re giving me too much credit,” she said eventually, watching him over the edge of her cards, splayed in her hands like a fan.

“Not true,” he replied, but before he could continue, Varric was in an uproar of laughter, promising them all that he’d be back in a moment.

“He’s writing something down,” Isabela leaned into Merrill’s ear to explain, “Something Fenris said.”

“What was it?”

“Something about _fisting_.”

Carver choked on his ale at the word, Merrill and Isabela erupting with laughter as foam covered the table.

“I don’t blame Varric,” Merrill said, the laughter still lingering in her throat as she spoke, “Sounds like a keeper.”

Fenris tried to glower from the other end of the table but managed to smirk despite it, pleased with himself. She didn’t get along with him, though it wasn’t for lack of trying, but they were alike in that bawdy jokes often went clear over their heads, though Merrill seemed to be getting the hang of things as much as Fenris was, slowly but surely.

It wasn’t long before Varric returned and the game began again, his face still fresh with laughter.

“So, any rumors, lads?” he asked the lot of them. Merrill shook her head, though she felt Isabela bristle with something she couldn’t quite decide was worth sharing with the table or not. Before Merrill could elbow her into relenting, Fenris spoke up.

“Heard of some trouble in the alienage,” he said, watching Merrill with a wary eye over the cards held aloft in his hand, “I didn’t hear any specifics, though it’s hard to believe with a blood witch in their midst that something awful wasn’t already bound to happen.”

Merrill swallowed her mead hard, taking a breath before looking Fenris in the eye - only he wasn’t even looking at her any longer, instead glancing at his cards as if he’d never meant to accuse her of anything, as if her being trouble was just fact. The table fell silent, unsure of whether to call Fenris out, but Merrill spoke up before Isabela or Hawke could stick up for her - again.

“Oh, yes,” she said casually, as if she’d simply forgotten, “That was me.”

“What?” Ainsleigh said, her eyes wide, throwing her cards to the table, damned if anyone saw the hand the Maker dealt her … or Varric, as far as Merrill was concerned.

“That’s right. Well, sort of,” Merrill continued, ignoring the awkward stares and Fenris’ prickly attitude now that he’d brought it up. “Someone broke my front door. But it’s fixed now, nothing to worry about.”

“Are you all right? Did they take anything?” Isabela asked, her hand now a gentle anchor on Merrill’s arm. Merrill only shook her head.“Thankfully, no. Dread wolf take them,” she huffed, “But it’s fine. Carver and I sorted it all out.”

“... _Carver_?” Ainsleigh looked at her brother, dumbfounded, her cards still sprawled over the table and not a comment to be made about them. 

“Carver got me a new door,” Merrill said as-a-matter-of-factly.

Varric looked between them, his cards still fanned out across his hands but hidden from the others, unlike Hawke who was still staring at her brother as if she had just looked at him for the very first time. Carver only glared back at her, unblinking.

“Doesn’t sound like Carver,” Varric said, not wholly unconvinced but eager to hear more.

Carver stared Ainsleigh down as if he might kill her with a look before muttering, “If you were wondering why the merchant by the docks has a black eye, wonder no longer.”

“Okay, now _that_ sounds like you,” Isabela said, sighing as if this bit of news set her at ease, at least enough to take a sip of whiskey. 

Hawke remained quiet, unspokenly exempt from the rest of the game now that she prematurely revealed her cards, but unnerved nonetheless, watching Carver from over the lip of her cup with raised brows whenever she took a swig. She glanced at Merrill, and then Isabela, who shrugged as if that should answer everything. And evidently, it did. Hawke shrugged in turn and looked at Carver again, narrowing her eyes as a sly smile crossed her face. Merrill could feel her own face grow red.


	3. In Thanks

“I wanted to thank you,” Merrill near-whispered a few days later as they roamed the market stalls of Hightown. “For the other day.”

“Oh, of course,” Carver said, startled after standing beside Merrill in comfortable silence, “D-don’t mention it.”

Merrill smiled, but watched him cautiously, wondering. Had she said something wrong? Did she miss something again? Carver didn’t speak for the rest of the outing, though she did find him looking at her from time to time, but he always looked away once she discovered him, eyes wide, hiding his expression with a purposeful cough before busying himself with something in one of the stalls. It wasn’t until they were about to leave that he approached her, eyes downcast and unsure, darting from side to side as he finally trailed behind the others to speak with her alone.

“I thought you might like these - might _use_ them - it seemed to suit you, or at least I think they do,” he stammered, handing her a package wrapped in cloth. Before Merrill could reply, Carver undid the wrapping, revealing a set of light bracers beneath, tinged green, “I thought they matched your scarf.”

Heat rushed to Merrill’s face, words failing her completely as she looked on the gift.

“It’s okay if you don’t like them, I just thought they might-”

“They’re perfect,” she finally breathed, the color draining from her face as she smiled, almost too nervous to look him in the eye, but thankful all the same.

“Good,” Carver sighed, relieved. “Good.”

* * *

“What exactly are we looking for, now?” Carver complained in Hawke’s direction as they scaled Sundermount. Hawke just shot a glare over her shoulder at Carver in lieu of responding.

“Embrium,” Merrill offered, nearing Carver now as he rested on the side of a ruin. “Green stalk, green and gold leaves, molten red center.”

“Ah,” he replied, softening as she approached, though Merrill still caught him shoot his sister another glare before picking up the pace again after catching his breath.

“You must know these mountains better than I do,” Carver said, keeping pace with her, “How long had your clan been camped here?”

“Oh, not too long, maybe a year,” she said, hazarding a glance in the camp’s general direction, “I’m surprised they’re still here, actually.”

She lingered, wondering if they’d meant to stay for _her_. Not out of a hope that she might come back, but more out of desperation that she might abandon her ambition to restore the Eluvian, now safely hidden at the back of her hovel in the Kirkwall alienage.

“Does it feel strange? Being this close?” Carver ventured, his expression betraying some inner worry that it may have been rude to ask.

“A little,” she answered, though she tried to smile. “I just have to have faith in what I’m doing, in my plan. The path I’ve set for myself.”

Hawke was a ways ahead of them now, seemingly impatient with their lagging, but Merrill continued to smile beside it.

“Finding Hawke may have been the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” she said, softly, “If it weren’t for Hawke’s generosity, I may not have been able to continue my work. I may not have seen the rest of the world.”

Carver barked out a laugh.

“Kirkwall is hardly _the world_ ,” he chuckled, smiling almost sadly at her as he says it, “But I know what you mean. Following my sister is always _interesting,_ if anything.”

“Too true.”

“Y’know, I can’t think of a single moment my life wasn’t defined by my sister,” Carver said again after a pause. He looked at Merrill sidelong for a moment before continuing on, as if he’d rather not dwell on the subject, as if he regretted saying anything at all.

“Is… that a good thing or a bad thing?” Merrill asked, feeling stupid for saying it. “I can’t tell.”

She fought the urge to pause, knowing it did no good to second-guess herself, even if she did it all the time. She was still getting the hang of things, still getting used to talking to _people_ instead of spirits. So instead she kept walking as if she’d not considered her question a blunder.

“I’ve never stopped complaining,” Carver laughed darkly, “But I’m loyal to my family, I love them. And if anyone has made sure they were safe, made sure they were taken care of, it was…”

Carver looked in Hawke’s direction again. She was no longer shooting them glances, hoping they’d hurry up with the power of her glares. Now, she was laughing about something with Varric up ahead, who was gesturing wildly with his crossbow. Merrill wanted to laugh along with them, or at the sight of them at least, but the look on Carver’s face stilled her. He was stuck somewhere between mild amusement and some brand of resentment, though Merrill wasn’t exactly sure which.

“You’ve kept her safe,” Merrill said, instantly thinking about the stories she’d heard of the Hawke kids growing up in Lothering, of the way Carver always rose to the occasion when someone would as much as _look_ at Ainsleigh the wrong way, especially in the Gallows. She’d seen as much when it came to the latter.

“Maybe, for now. But I can’t go on forever.”

Carver turned, smiling sorrowfully at her before trudging on. 

The mountain eased up on them a bit, leveling out as they neared the top. The sun was nearly at its apex now, threatening the heat that came just after midday, when Merrill noticed it…

“Storm clouds,” she muttered, watching as the dark masses rose over the horizon once they neared the top of Sundermount. The dalish camp wasn’t far off, and Hawke and Varric were nowhere in sight.

Almost as soon as she’d said it, the rain poured out of the heavens. Not in droplets, but in a heavy sheet of downpour, instantly soaking Merrill to her bones and clouding the view ahead, her visibility shrinking to just a meter ahead if she was being generous.

“Quick, in here,” Carver said, ushering her to their left. Merrill almost froze at the feeling of Carver’s hand at the small of her back, but the rain gave her no moment to lose. Not far from where they stood was the mouth of a small cave, its gaping maw a dry refuge for the time being. FInally able to see again once inside, Merrill laughed, watching the rain create a near impenetrable barrier to the outside.

“Looks like I’m a bit rusty,” she muttered to herself. But upon speaking, Merrill’s voice echoed, her laugh flitting off the surface of every rock around them, amplifying it more than she’d intended.

“Pardon?” Carver frowned, confused.

“Traveling with the Dalish we were able to predict the weather pretty well on the road. Mapping out our routes by the stars as well as the changing skies. Living in the alienage, I’ve already forgotten so much… I guess I haven’t really given it much thought. Goes to show how out of practice I am.”

“Tell me about it,” Carver said, setting himself down on a boulder the height of his knees, “We used to have to do the same in Lothering, on our farm.”

“Your family had a farm?” Merrill asked, her voice small, still nervous whenever Carver brought up his past in Ferelden, his lost family. She was almost glad the conversation had dropped earlier, but it wasn’t out of lack of interest, more out of fear of saying the wrong thing. 

Carver nodded, trying to wring the water from his shirt while still wearing it.

“It’s how we made a living, eventually. Well, _sort_ of,” he gave up on his shirt and began fussing with his now water-logged boots. “There wasn’t much my parents could do after moving from place to place, what with my father being a mage and all. We eventually settled in Lothering. It was quiet enough, the Templars less of a threat. Having to watch after Ainsleigh and Bethany, well, I guess we mostly just had to live off the land, I guess.”

He didn’t look at her as he spoke, looking off into some non-existent middle distance where his past lay, watching it unfold as if for the very first time, with new eyes.

“They really didn’t have anything, did they?” he muttered, more to himself than to Merrilll, his tone almost incredulous.

“And now?”

Carver paused, kicking a stray pebble with his ankle before looking up at Merrill again. This kept happening, the two of them. Either pairing off or finding themselves alone while the others did… well, other some such. And every time, they got to talking. Merrill wasn’t sure anyone else talked to her as much, at least not in private. Other than Isabela, perhaps. But Isabela loved to talk, granted she was in preferred company.

“Now?” Carver held her gaze, considering his answer before he spoke again. “It might all change, I guess,” he said, “What with Varric’s expedition.”

“Do you reckon you’ll stay?” she ventured, suddenly unsure of whether she wanted to hear the answer. “Once it’s all over?”

Carver’s gaze was still intent on hers, surprisingly unwavering as he delivered his answer.

“I guess that all depends,” he laughed breathily, to himself mostly, though he was careful to watch Merrill’s reaction. “I guess I never really thought about it.”

Carver turned toward the cave mouth out at the pouring rain, as if looking for something, as if seeking out his sister beyond the downpour, as if she might answer with another glare like before or with some new proposition for a job, as usual.

“I never felt like I had a choice, but if they’re well off on their own…”

Just as Carver sounded as if he might voice a revelation, the rain stopped, as suddenly as it had started. Carver and Merrill both blinked at the skies as they quickly faded from a dark charcoal to a lighter, more palatable grey, and Ainsleigh and Varric were heard on the horizon, calling their names, like birds coming back to life after the passing storm.

Part of Merrill wanted Carver to continue, eager to hear what he had planned for the future, for when his sister no longer dictated his very purpose in life. But another part of her never wanted him to finish his thought, feeling silly for ever having cared, wondering what it meant to her and what difference it would even make in the end.

“So… embrium?” Carver asked with an awkward half-smile, eager to change the subject.

Merrill smiled wanly, fearing it looked too grim though she couldn’t help it. Before she could dwell on it for too long, she lead the way back out of the cave and back onto the mountainside, spotting the place where Ainslieigh and Varric’s impatient voices were coming from.

“Embrium it is,” she nodded, swallowing her discontent and pushing onward despite it.

* * *

The streets were too quiet for this part of town, and they were all on edge. Merrill, as always, took up the rear, relying on her staff as if it were a walking stick - a ruse she felt fooled few. Ainsleigh led them on, careful to appear casual, as if she suspected nothing, as usual, flirting idly with Isabela as she meandered the streets, the rest of her merry band following close behind. 

“It always starts like this, doesn’t it?” Varric asked Merrill in the din, a twinkle in his eye. “It’s as if every bandit in town fancies themselves an original.”

Merrill nodded, though Varric’s joking did little to ease her nerves. She knew she could handle herself, but the initial jolt of surprise when Kirkwall’s ruffians overtook them always managed to take her breath away, never quite ready for their chosen moment to strike even if she felt she were preparing for it from the moment they stepped out onto the streets after dark. It was different in the forest, in Ferelden. But perhaps it was because she’d had years’ more experience, an entire troupe of hunters at her back, and few of them cracking jokes while they were at it. 

“The deep breath before the plunge,” Merrill responded, thinking back on an old poem she’d memorized in Elvhen. 

“ _The deep breath before the plunge_ ,” Varric echoed, smirking. “I like that. Do you mind if I-?”

But before he could properly ask, they were surrounded, Merrill’s staff up in an instant, a barrier surrounding the lot of them as the bandits crept toward them in the dark of the alleyway. 

Carver was the first to take a swing, his hammer cutting through the horde like butter. Hawke was next, sending flames crawling up their underthings as Isabela sliced into the foremost bandits with the sharper ends of her knives, feeling merciful for once. 

Varric shot off several poisoned arrows, plumes of arid green smoke erupting in the crowd of enemies before them. Merrill watched, waited, her staff poised as she held out for the opportune moment, slamming the end of the thing into a few stragglers’ heads as they made to pounce on Varric with little success. 

Merrill spun around, sensing someone behind her, and unleashed a wall of ice on instinct. Sapping her of her energy, Merrill pressed on, swinging her staff with shard after shard of ice until the figures behind her stumbled to a stop.

“Uh, a little help here?” Ainsleigh called over the clamor, her staff swinging wildly above the heads of the rabble now closing in on her.

“Heads up!” Varric bellowed, shooting an arrow from the mouth of this crossbow with a small bottle of lyrium attached. 

Hawke's hand shot up out of the crowd to snatch the bottle before the arrow made its way clear across the alleyway, barely grazing Carver’s head as he made another swing.

“Hey! Watch where you’re pointing that thing!”

Varric laughed, launching another several arrows in quick succession just past Carver’s arm and into the body of the man he was about to cut down.

“And that one still counts as mine!” Carver called over his shoulder as Varric only snickered, setting his sights elsewhere. Carver turned with a laugh, hauling his hammer over his shoulder as he moved, only to be tripped up from behind.

“Carver, hold still!” Merrill called out in an instant, watching the entire thing unfold. Taking after Varric’s antics from a moment ago, Merrill shot several shards of ice through the air, the pointed ends directed straight at Carver’s current captors. 

“Merrill, wait!”

It took a moment for Merrill to register her own name called out among all the noise, but by the time it did, it was too late. She was ambushed from her blind spot, tumbling before she knew what was even happening - but before even hitting the ground, Merrill tucked into a roll and held her staff hand out so as not to break her fall, sweeping the thing across the floor so her attackers fell flat onto their backsides before they knew what hit them.

A boot made contact with Merrill’s ribs just as she was about to jump back to her feet, sending her several feet sideways, the bruises taking form instantly.

“Lucky that,” she huffed out a laugh as she struggled to her feet, managing to slap her staff across her assailant’s face before sending him back with a thrust to the chest, ”I’ve got something special up my sleeve.”

Without saying it outright, Merrill summoned the power drawn from her bleeding ribs, even if they were bruising instead of bleeding outright. With another jab of her staff, she sent her attacker flying clear across the alleyway, a fist of rock and stone forming out of seemingly thin air.

Thrumming with the energy blood magic always instilled in her, Merrill breathed in deeply, taking stock of herself and her injuries before turning back towards the others.

Ainsleigh was nearly engulfed in the flames of her own making, enemies attacking left and right, Isabela dancing around the fire’s edge with a reckless grace only she could pull of. Varric was now taking cover from a stack of crates piled high in the corner of the alley, using his vantage point to spill traps from above and send plumes of toxic smoke down into the rabble.

Merrill made to swing her staff again but winced, her ribs feeling as if they’d just been kicked again with full force. _Broken_ , she thought, a hunger instantly taking hold of her as she realized it, the residual energy from the unconscious bodies that littered the alley calling out to her, as if to feed. 

_No, never._ If she gave in once, she would give in entirely. And with blood magic, it was just too risky. It was hard enough using her own health to make her magic manifest, but the moment she began relying on the dead and dying to replenish herself the harder she knew it would be to resist the demon she’d befriended, if _befriended_ were even the right word.

Slumping against the wall behind her, Merrill took another breath, waiting for her energy to return in full before entering the fray again, trying not to fret and wonder _why_ there were so many of them tonight. Steadying herself, she made to pounce, ready to throw her magic into the men now slowly closing in on Varric, when she saw him -

“ _Carver!”_

His name almost sounded alien on her own tongue, spoken with such ferocity and none of her usual timidness when it came to where she stood with everyone, save for Isabela or Varric. Without thinking, she dove through the crowd to the other side of the alleyway, slinging the sharp end of her staff into a few knees along the way, to where Carver stood, slumped, bleeding out to no one’s notice.

“I’m fine,” he choked out, none too convincing as blood spilled over his lip with the effort.

“Creators, no,” Merrill let out with a low breath, agitated yet instilled with adrenaline-laced urgency, “Where are you hurt?”

Carver only gestured to his side, moving his hand so it revealed the bloody mess that was the left side of his rib cage. As soon as Merrill registered the blood, and the loss of it, she summoned everything within her to begin siphoning power off the bodies around them, and placed her hand, now a glowing red, to Carver’s torso. Carver could only watch her, eyes wide, as she tapped into what little life was left in those around them to try and heal his wounds, at least until they could drag him to Anders’ clinic…

“ _Merrill_ ,” he said, his voice weak, almost pleading, “You don’t have to do this.”

“It’s all right,” she said, trying to smile but finding she couldn’t in her concentration, looking at Carver only to realize just how close they were, their bodies nearly pressed together against the alley wall as Merrill directed as much magic as she could at Carver’s mangled ribs. But she held her ground, holding his gaze, “It’s not like _they_ ’ll be needing it anymore, anyway.”

Carver almost cracked a smile, a laugh erupting from his throat though it sounded more like a croak.

“ _Bloody hell_ ,” Varric’s voice uttered, now at Merrill’s ear, “What happened to you, Junior?”

“Saved _your_ sorry ass, is what I did,” Carver japed, his smile fully blooming now, a shiteating grin baring his still-bloodstained teeth as he smirked at Varric. 

“I owe you one, kid,” the dwarf muttered, earnest thanks clear in his tone of voice. He sidled beside Merrill and Carver, looking between them for a moment before pushing a vial into Merrill’s hand. She looked down, though her concentration on Carver’s healing never wavered. In her hand was a glowing bottle of Lyrium, but the _strong_ stuff, the kind that looked almost more purple than blue. It was a nudge, albeit a small one, for her to cut back on the blood magic. Varric never said as much, but the blood magic seemed to outwardly irk him only as much as he seemed to care about her, so his known feelings on the matter never extended beyond that - whatever his personal opinion. She smiled a small smile, looking back up at him in thanks.

“You’ll need it, Daisy,” Varric said, his voice low, “You’re looking a little pale.”

Merrill truly paused now, for the first time since reaching for Carver, realizing only at Varric’s insistence that her skin had completely lost its color, her bony hands now more like actual bone than skin.

“I still need to-” she said, reaching for Carver’s limp arm now, noticing just how badly broken it was, and Carver didn’t stop her. He watched on, his expression growing softer as Varric moved away, not waiting for Merrill to finish the sentence she never completed, the rabble behind them finally dying down. The truth being she didn’t know _what_ she meant to say. All she knew is that she might have stopped to do the same to Hawke or Isabela, but it were Fenris or Anders laying in this alleyway, Merrill wasn’t sure if she’d run the risk of blood magic to save them. Not to say that she wouldn’t do _nothing_ , but -

“I-” Carver started, disrupting her thoughts, his voice catching in his throat. Merrill met his gaze again and held it there, their faces close, “ _Thank you_.”

“No need for thanks,” she practically whispered, feeling weak herself now. “It’s-”

She wanted to say it was nothing, but it wasn’t _nothing_. Blood magic drained her of so much energy, sapping her of mana in an instant, calling on her more intimate vitals to support its power. It opened her up to something darker, hungrier inside her, and it took everything in her not to give in. And though she knew she never would, having tempered her mastery of her own blood lust over the last few years, she knew it meant something when she didn’t think anything of using it, if it meant saving Carver.

“You’re never going to believe this, baby brother,” Ainsleigh’s voice sang across the now-quiet alleyway. “We’ve just - oh, _bloody hell._ ”

“I’m all right,” Carver said, moving now, though he and Merrill still remained close, his arm still healing under her gentle touch.

Merrill shot a glance over her shoulder to see Ainsleigh and Isabela jogging from further down the side street toward them, no other thugs in the alley to keep them company. _So that was the last of them,_ she thought, sighing.

Merrill hurried the last of her healing, not just for Carver’s sake but her own, feeling weaker than she’d like to admit, realizing Varric was probably more right than he knew. She’d need more than just a Lyrium potion to recover her strength, but she managed to get to her feet once Carver’s arm seemed capable of moving of its own accord, helping him stand again as his sister approached.

Ainsleigh’s blue eyes were bright, more turquoise than Carver’s, and they danced with a near manic light in the torchlight of the alleyway as she neared them.

“ _We have it_ ,” she said, “We finally have it!”

“Have… have _what?”_ Carver asked weakly, disappointment flitting over his face for an instant before frustration took her, clearly miffed with this sister’s indifference to the state of his health.

“The _coin_.”

“The…?” realization dawned on Carver’s face, and for a moment he looked to Merrill, almost worried, before looking back at his sister, “The _coin_.”

Ainsleigh nodded, her eyes growing almost watery before she swept her brother up in a hug, at least careful of his wounds as she moved in.

It was odd to say the least - Merrill, Varric and Isabela all exchanging glances as the Hawke siblings embraced, for what seemed like perhaps the first time since childhood (or ever, given Carver’s expression). But the air between them all felt charged, and soon Varric was even smiling.

“What’d I tell ya?” he said, not so much meaning the words verbatim as much as he meant it as an idiom, one Merrill still didn’t quite understand. “Welcome aboard, Hawkes. Well, officially.”

“I’m… I’m missing something, aren’t, I?” Isabela said, deadpan, arms crossed over her chest, her white tunic now generously covered in both blood and dirt. 

Ainsleigh released Carver - who slumped against the wall behind him again slightly, still in no shape to stand on his own - and within three strides was upon Isabela, sweeping her into a kiss as she spun her around. Isabela leaned into the kiss, though it did nothing to mask the surprise that colored her face once her boots hit the ground again.

“If you’re looking to donate said coin to _me_ , then I have no reason other than to wholeheartedly oblige,” Isabela cooed, though she knew there was more to this story. Her honey-colored eyes locked with Merrill’s for a moment, as if silently asking ' _Do_ **_you_ ** _know what they’re going on about?'_ But Merrill only shrugged.

“It’s our expedition! What, did I not tell you?” Varric said, reading the room before clapping Isabela on the shoulder, “Well, probably not, seeing as you can’t hold onto fifty sovereigns so long as you’re sleeping at the Hanged Man…”

"Thanksfor the vote of confidence,” Isabela said, crossing her arms again. “I’m assuming this is a family affair?”

She nodded her head towards Carver, who nodded in return, still weak but clearly recovering, almost standing now.

“Bringing the Hawke name back into fashion,” Ainsleigh said, her excitement still clear on her face, her every movement lit by some inner fire. “Well, _Amell_ , technically, but it’s Hawke now, so-”

“ _I get it, I get it_ ,” Isabela held up a hand, hoping Hawke would shut up. “Drinks on Varric, I take it?”

Isabela smiled her sickly sweet smile, to which Varric rolled his eyes but smiled in return nonetheless. 

“I guess so,” he said, holding his arms out wide as if in invitation. “Though I take it Junior here might need to sleep it off before drowning himself in drink.”

“I think I need at least a week off before I can even think straight, let alone go into _the Deep Roads_ ,” Carver rejoined, his usual snark returning to his voice. But after he spoke, he glanced at Merrill, his expression anything but snarky. Instead, he seemed… almost sad? Merrill couldn’t put her finger on it, but thought best to leave it alone, quickly averting her gaze to the others.

“Next week it is then,” Isabela grinned, “Not that we don’t have a celebratory drink or five at the Hanged Man every other night as it is.”

“Well this time, it’s not just in thanks for not dying in a ditch somewhere, or in tonight’s case an alley. This time we’ll be drinking to the hopes that we _won’t_ die, in the Deep Roads, I mean.” Hawke was nearly giddy with laughter, despite the nature of the conversation. Merrill looked from Hawke to Carver, and back again, wondering how exactly this was all supposed to work. Too weak to ponder, Merrill just rested on her staff, watching as the conversation continued between Hawke, Varric, and Isabela while Carver regained his strength.

She wanted to help, to reach out for him again - to _touch_ him - but she held her ground, only watching when she knew he wasn’t aware that she was staring. 

“All right, Junior?” Varric asked after a while, the seriousness returning to his voice when Carver seemed able to hold himself upright without the help of the wall behind him. Carver nodded, glancing at Merrill again, looking as if he might say something, but he remained silent.

Merrill only pursed her lips in polite acknowledgement, moving towards him as if he might need help. Without asking, and without refusing for once, Carver leaned into her, taking a hand to her staff as if it were his own walking stick. 

“Do you mind?” he asked as Hawke and Isabela began to finally lead them out of the myriad of side streets and back to the main thoroughfare, heading towards Darktown, towards Anders’ hovel, without another word.

“Not at all,” she replied.


	4. One For the Road

“I have a bad feeling about this” Carver groaned as he peered into his second mug of ale, considering his drink while Varric and his sister drank deeply upon ceremoniously exclaiming cheers.

“Come on, brother,” Ainsleigh griped once she swallowed her flagon in full. “I’m just as worried as you are but saying it out loud will likely only spoil our chances.”

“Y’know some dwarves actually heed bad feelings, Hawke,” Varric offered, looking at Carver with a pleading glance, “Though, I don’t necessarily  _ prescribe _ to such superstition. But it’s not unwarranted.”

Carver grimaced, wordlessly thinking ‘ _ not helping’ _ at Varric but the dwarf only shrugged, smirking, caring more for his drink and it’s completion well before the night was out so he could down at least a couple more.

“Dwarves heed bad feelings, all right,” Ainsleigh laughed, “About  _ falling into the sky _ .”

Varric waved off her comment, not deeming it worthy of retort. Carver only rolled his eyes, and after eyeing his mug again, downed the entire thing. 

“You’re more nervous than I thought,” Isabela said, sidling up beside him at the bar once Ainsleigh began to harp on Varric, fearing he’d too grown sensitive just before their weeks’ long trek underground. Isabela shook her head at Ainsleigh’s display, a smile still present on her face. “I’ll miss her, I’ll give her that, but I don’t envy you being stuck below ground with her for six weeks.”

“Six weeks will be nothing,” Carver huffed, “Try living with her your whole life.”

Isabela only nudged his elbow in the spirit of friendly knowing, though Carver didn’t exactly feel so friendly at the moment. But Isabela didn’t move on, sensing Carver’s ambivalence. Instead she considered her drink, the swill the Hanged Man often passed for whiskey, and stood beside him for a moment longer before speaking again.

“You do a lot for her,” she said, “But not all deckhands are meant to be deckhands forever.”

Carver looked at Isabela sidelong, her honey-yellow eyes glowing in the dim light of the tavern as she considered him, saying something unsaid, implied.

“When I wanted to become captain of my own ship, I took the opportunity when I saw it. I didn’t wait for it to be handed to me. But that’s not to say I didn’t wait for the opportune moment.”

Isabela nudged him again, this time gentler.

“I don’t think that time’s come yet, but if I were you I’d just... keep a weather eye out for when it does.”

Carver could only nod, unsure of where this unsolicited advice was coming from, not to mention the softness of it. He’d seen the way Isabela had been getting on with Ainsleigh of late, but it made him feel better knowing that his sister had a girlfriend that seemed to genuinely care. Not just about her, but everything about her, even her family.

“You don’t have to give me a pep talk, you know,” Carver said, his way of saying thanks, feeling foolish for every word that escaped his mouth. Isabela only barked out a laugh.

“Better have another drink before you become any  _ more _ awkward,” Isabela muttered before downing her whiskey and clapping Carver on the back as she turned to the barkeep behind them. “Another ale for this blundering idiot over here, please.”

Carver cracked a smile, shaking his head. “And I was just beginning to like you.”

“Can’t have that now, can we?” Isabela winked, handing Carver another mug of ale, ignoring the empty cup still in his hand. “Now, speaking of awkward and opportune moments…”

Isabela did not elaborate. Carver waited for her to finish only to find that she’d disappeared from the bar entirely and was somehow already across the room when he noticed Merrill patiently waiting beside him at the counter just a few steps away from where Isabela stood. 

“ _ Andraste’s ti-” _

“Pardon?” Merrill asked, suddenly noticing his eyes on her, her face growing pink at the realization.

_ No doubt part of her plan, _ Carver thought as he shot a glare in Isabela’s direction, mentally berating himself for already acting like such an idiot.

“Varric’s paying for that, I hope,” he said instead, considering drumming up with another phrase that at least rhymed with  _ Andraste’s tits _ for cover, but coming up with nothing, decided to say something else entirely. An entire facial journey took place on Merrill’s face as she tried to make sense of his comment before realizing he meant the drink she was about to order, the silver still held in her hand.

“Well, not exactly,” she said, laughing nervously, “I mean, he offered but… I don’t know, I feel like I’m resident enough to pay for my own drinks.”

Merrill tapped the silver on the bar, proud of herself, and Carver couldn’t help but smile. The smallest things always seemed to give Merrill purpose, and he wished he’d had some sense of that for himself. But watching her enjoy life’s smaller pleasures was enough.

“Finally feeling at home?” he said, leaning against the bar now, growing comfortable as the alcohol made its rounds, making his limbs suddenly feel warm, more at ease despite his nervousness. He was always nervous around Merrill it seemed, but it was a nice kind of nervousness, something more on the verge of excitement but softer, somehow. 

“A little,” she said, easing up now as well, still waiting with her silver in hand, but her posture more relaxed, a bit more comfortable now that she was talking, “I think I’m getting the hang of a few things.”

She saluted with her silver, as if it were proof, and Carver jokingly saluted back, but with his mug of ale, a wave of foam floating over the side of it as he did so. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” he said, already feeling the weight of the ale he’d just devoured in a few seconds along with the ale still in his hand, hitting him all at once, “I didn’t mean to-”

Merrill only laughed, her face giddy now as she brought a hand to cover her mouth. “No sorrys needed,” she said, looking suddenly at ease. The bartender came around as Carver hastily tried to clean the mess up, taking Merrill’s silver before filling her glass again. “I’m sure you’re just nervous.”

Merrill’s smile faded though Carver could tell she was still struggling to appear polite about it. 

“It’s definitely the nerves,” he confirmed, letting out a breath as if he’d been holding it, watching Merrill try to act comfortable despite clearly regretting bringing up what was to happen the following day. “It’s alright though, I’ll be fine. Tonight’s about…”

Carver came up empty. What  _ was _ this all about? Money? Fame? Adventure? He figured all three, yet neither option seemed to fit the mood - or  _ his _ mood, at least.

“About good luck?” Merrill asked after a moment, raising the glass the barkeep had just handed her, in cheers. “I think that’s reason enough.”

Carver smiled, feeling sheepish, and slowly met Merrill’s cup with his own. He didn’t quite clink glasses, instead touching his mug against hers gently and staying there for a moment as he locked eyes with her.

“I’ll need it,” he said, “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Merrill smiled, her eyes a bright sage in the firelight. A reflection of the hearth flames danced orange-gold just around her pupils, gold flecks speckling the field of green that filled the rest. Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she eased into her smile, blushing slightly, and Carver realized now that he was  _ staring. _

“Sorry, I just-”

“Nerves again?”

Nerves, yes, but not about the night or the morning after. Suddenly, all he could think of was Merrill. How he’d subconsciously tried to walk near her whenever they were about town, or meandering the Wounded Coast. And even when Carver didn’t seek her out, Merrill always seemed to be there, nearby, always a constant. How he’d rushed to her house when he’d heard of trouble in the alienage, not even stopping to ask for any details before making his way over to find her and make sure she was all right, how he’d thought of coming back around for tea but feared he’d come off as being too forward if he did… now regretting he hadn’t at least  _ tried. _

Carver only nodded and took another sip of ale, feeling himself steady as much as he felt the alcohol taking its course. It was desired, though, at least for now. It could help him forget, unless he was unfortunate enough for it to have the opposite effect.

“You’ll be fine, you know,” Merrill said, sidling up closer to him against the bar, looking out at the crowd before them at his side. “I know you will be.”

“How are you so sure?” Any other time Carver might have worried that he had come off as arrogant, as he oft did when he felt inadequate or unsure of himself, but his voice was softer than intended, almost gruff as he responded to Merrill. 

Without looking at him, she nudged his arm gently with her shoulder and said “Because, I just know.”

“It’s my  _ swording  _ skills, isn’t it?” he said tentatively, despite the smile on his face. Merrill blushed, but calmed once she looked up at Carver, seeing that he was smiling as he said it, and allowed herself a small smile as well.

“Yes, the  _ swording _ ,” she said, laughing lightly now, her voice like chimes on a breeze, “I would be no use to you lot down there in the Deep Roads, anyway. You know how much I hate getting pummeled.”

Without waiting to read her reaction, Carver burst out laughing, relieved to hear that Merrill was laughing right along with him.

“So you’re finally getting it, I see?”

“Varric’s given me a talking to,” Merrill answered, her laughter still present in her voice and on her face, lighting up her eyes, “And Isabela. And your sister…”

“It’s charming, you know,” he said without thinking, feeling his face grow warm as he said it, but finding he did not regret it at all. He looked Merrill in the eye as he said it, too, watching for her reaction as she eagerly searched his face, finding him sincere, “It’s… I don’t know. Refreshing.”

“Refreshing?” Merrill repeated, nodding and biting her lip before looking away, examining the crowd again as she mulled over his words. 

“You’re wicked smart, Merrill,” he said, the words spilling out before he could filter them, “But when you don’t know something, you’re never afraid to ask. And you’re not afraid to make mistakes. You do what you think is right without worrying what others think first, you don’t let it stray you from your intention, you-”

He paused, noticing that Merrill was listening, wide-eyed, her hands wrapped around her mug now, intent to hear him continue.

“What I mean to say is,” he continued, his voice softer now, low enough so only Merrill could hear, “You’re very brave.”

Merrill usually blushed easily, but now her face was beet red, her eyes still wide as she watched him, unsure of what to say in response so instead she took a long sip from her cup, still watching him from over the brim.

Carver wanted to laugh - out of nervousness and at himself for being such a bloody fool about it all - but he refrained, afraid she might take it the wrong way. 

“Carrying around a big sword is one thing,” he said, “If you ask Varric, he’d tell you I was compensating for something, and all bawdy jokes aside, maybe I am.”

Merrill remained quiet, her expression turning from mildly embarrassed to curious in an instant. Even Carver was surprised with the truth fast coming out of his mouth, and just how long he’d been holding it in.

“I think I’ve been hiding behind that sword for far too long,” he finally admitted after a beat, his eyes glancing towards the crowd, and without even trying, landing on his sister, watching as Ainsleigh draped a lazy arm over Isabela’s shoulder as she tried to tell the pirate a dirty joke, no doubt. “Maybe I’ll find something other than gold in the Deep Roads, I don’t know.”

Carver was still looking towards his sister, as if waiting for their eyes to meet across the room, a wealth of unspoken questions and lifelong ills shared between them, when he felt Merrill lean into him, her hand reaching for his arm. Her palm was warm against his skin, her fingers flexing as if she meant to gently squeeze him but thinking against it before she could do anything to take the gesture away completely.

“ _ Dareth shiral _ ,” she said, looking up at him briefly before looking away again, though her hand remained on his arm. “It means safe journey.”

She looked down at her shuffling feet, one hand still holding her drink while the other seemed to hold onto Carver as an anchor.

“I do hope you find something worthwhile down there, as well as perhaps something worthwhile up here. When you get back, that is,” she stammered almost, but managed to flash him a comforting smile before she squeezed his bicep gently, letting go almost reluctantly a moment later.

“I’ve already found something up here,” he near-confessed, his chest in knots as he said the words. “I just hope it’s still here when I get back.”

Merrill’s hand twitched, as if she might move towards him again but thought better of it, or perhaps that was just Carver’s wishful thinking. Wishful - already bloody drunk - thinking.

“But what about you, Merrill?” he asked, desperate to change the subject and not sound so self-absorbed. Now it was his turn to nudge her arm as a manner of friends might, or something more, feeling dumb despite the intention of the gesture. “What will you do once you’ve uncovered the secrets of your ancient mirror?”

Merrill glanced at him, her mouth opening as if she meant to say something else first but thought better of it, stopping herself as she looked out from the bar as if her answer was written somewhere in the crowd gathered by the fire. 

“I haven’t thought that far ahead, actually,” she said, laughing anxiously, an absent finger running along the rim of her cup as she thought, “I think I’m close, though. To figuring it out, I mean.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Carver said, wishing he’d asked more questions in the past weeks, but realizing there was never a good time and no way not to sound like a total dolt when he tried to talk about the Dalish, something he knew next to nothing about, though he’d tried what he thought was his best to ask innocent questions over the months. 

“I hope so,” Merrill answered, “It’s all I’ve wanted, aside from learning our history. But I feel that once I solve this, then… who knows, maybe it  _ will _ lead into more, open more doors, or…”

Merrill trailed off, her index finger still tracing the rim of her mug. 

“It will at least bring them justice.”

“Justice?” Carver found himself echoing, inching closer to Merrill, noting that he’d never quite seen her so serious before.

Merrill looked up at him as he uttered the word, as if startled, embarrassed, her face growing red again in the firelight.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-” Carver began, unsure of whether he’d strayed too far, already berating himself for asking questions, suddenly hyper-aware of  _ why _ he never asked them in the first place seeing as they always got him into trouble…

“No, it’s quite alright. I guess I’ve never quite explained the whole thing, have I?”

Carver didn’t say anything this time, lest he ruin the moment again. He’d unwittingly opened up to Merrill here and there before, but had she really spoken about her past to him? To anyone? In bits, yes, but the milder bits, the easier to swallow bits, the parts about roaming Ferelden and missing the birds there or the kind of songs they used to play in taverns or on the roads there as opposed to the music here… Carver bit his lip, itching for more ale to soothe his nerves but refraining from taking another sip while Merrill spoke.

He was careful to keep his mouth shut while she regaled him with the somber tale, careful to  _ actually listen _ to every detail as she threaded it into the narrative, explaining her history, her time before the Blight and her part  _ in _ it so to speak, as well as how that inspired her interest in the mirrors and how it was something she felt was owed to her friends as much as it was owed to her people in knowing where they came from, what preceded them, and what they felt they’d lost. By the end of it, he wasn’t sure what to say, but he was sure that he had somehow inched closer enough to Merrill that their shoulders were touching now, backs to the bar, and Merrill made no motion to move or to otherwise indicate that she wanted to. If Carver wasn’t convinced his half-drunk mind was exaggerating (and he  _ wasn’t _ sure) he would have said that Merrill was nearly  _ leaning _ into him by the end of it, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I don’t blame you,” he said a moment after she finished, “I would have done the same. Leave no stone unturned.”

Merrill laughed weakly, a hand lightly touching his arm again for an instant before drawing it away. Carver nearly blushed at the momentary feel of her fingers on his skin, swift as a breeze and gone again just as quickly.

“You might be the only one who thinks so,” she said, sighing.

“But what I think doesn’t matter,” Carver said with sudden conviction, “And it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks, either. All that matters is what you believe in, no?”

Carver was almost asking as much for himself as he was for Merrill, still questioning their Deep Roads excursion, still fearing it the closer it got, still in denial that they left the sky-facing world for weeks on end before the sun would rise the following day. 

“It’s the least you could do for your clan, the ones you’d lost. At least then their deaths might not be so mysterious, I don’t know. If you can’t undo it, if you can’t bring them back, then maybe… maybe it might not happen again. And maybe that will be enough.”

“It’s why you’re following her, isn’t it?” Merrill asked, her voice whisper-soft. If Carver hadn’t been standing so close to her, he might not have heard her query or the faint quiver as she spoke.

“I suppose I understand, then, why Hawke - why  _ you _ \- might venture into the Deep Roads. After what happened to your father, to your twin sister in getting here... if the Deep Roads prove successful, then it might make coming to Kirkwall worth it. After losing so much.” 

As if on cue, and if she heard, Carver’s eyes met Ainsleigh’s across the tavern. The confident smirk she wore only faded slightly as she registered his gaze, nodding almost solemnly in recognition before returning her attention to Varric laughing riotously at her side. On most days, the only thing Carver admitted he had in common with his elder sister was their eyes - ice blue, like their mother’s - and on most days he was right. But even if what he intended to come out of this expedition was different than Ainsleigh’s, he knew their reason for going all in was the same. As much as he missed his father, Carver knew there was just about anything he would give up in this world if it meant bringing Bethany back, but if tonight was the last night he’d spend in proximity with the girl he fancied well… perhaps surviving wasn’t the worst thing he could have done.

* * *

“Come  _ on _ , Junior. Just one more round!” Varric pleaded, his blonde hair gleaming orange in the hearthlight. “You don’t want to go into the Deep Roads still owing me money, now do you?”

“It’s the last thing I want, Varric,” Carver resigned, “But Maker’s  _ breath _ I need to sleep before we throw our lives away tomorrow.”

“Oh, cheer up baby brother,” Ainsleigh clapped Carver on the back, somehow kicking his drunkenness into third gear, “We can sleep when we’re dead.”

Carver could only glare at her, but in meeting her eyes he knew that she was just as serious as she was being sarcastic - as was often the way with her. Mask your inner fears by voicing them aloud, but with enough panache that no one took you seriously enough and loud enough so no one could accuse you of lying afterwards. He could sense the fear dancing behind her smiling eyes, and he resented how much she looked like mother in moments like this, easily winning him over with the second-hand-guilt her resemblance alone inspired.

“I’ll cheer up after I’ve had some sleep,” he said, unceremoniously removing his sister’s hand from his upper back, “ _ Good night _ .”

Sauntering away from the ongoing game of Wicked Grace, Carver near-stumbled into the bar as he returned his cup, wishing there were a loaf of bread to replace it in its stead. If only the water were drinkable here…

“Heading out?” a voice said at his side, and Carver couldn’t help but smile, heavy enough with drink that he couldn’t hide it this time.

“‘Fraid so,” he resigned, his vision steadying as it settled on Merrill, the apples of her cheeks almost as red as the real thing. It suited her, he thought, as it usually did after a long night at the Hanged Man, several rounds of cards under their belts. After a few drinks Fenris or Anders would usually get riled up - one or the other, or both on a bad night - only calmed by a few choice words of Ainsleigh’s or otherwise by Aveline’s steady hand. Isabela and Varric would swap stories with increasing volume, but Merrill would instead become a merrier version of herself, more open, more willing to speak her mind without regard for how anyone else might react, more inclined to attempt jokes of her own or dole out compliments, unbidden and without prompt, as if she’d stored them all week and waited until their semi-weekly game to dole out gifts regardless of how they were received.

“Are you… alright?” Merrill asked.

Carver shook his head, too easily lost in thought.

“Had a bit too much,” he admitted, “I didn’t want to but, the nerves and all-”  _ and at the insistence of my sister,  _ he wanted to finish but didn’t, the embarrassment already eating at him.

Merrill grimaced with empathy before reaching over her shoulder and into her pack. After a moment she shyly produced a half loaf of powdered bread, nudging it into his reluctant and clumsy hands.

“This should do the trick, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Her expression was earnest as she closed his hands over the bread, still wrapped in a bit of cloth, her fingers lingering longer than she’d normally allow over his skin. Carver could only watch her, his eyes fixed on hers, unable to move or will himself to look elsewhere. He wanted to savor it, finally admitting it now, he wanted to drink all of her in - her face, her voice, the feel of her hands on his - in case the Deep Roads proved perilous or in case Merrill found herself elsewhere in the weeks before he returned. None of Ainsleigh’s crew were beholden to her, he knew, but there was something about the idea of Merrill simply  _ not being there _ that did not sit well with him no matter how many scenarios his mind considered.

“So I guess this is… goodbye? If you’re headed home now, that is,” Merrill said after a moment, clearly anxious with the silence.

“It…” the words caught in his throats, not yet fully formed before he spoke them. “It doesn’t have to be, I mean.”

Merrill almost smiled before her brows furrowed. “Pardon?”

“I mean…” Carver sighed, shaking his head at his own stupidity, “Let me walk you home.”

She stilled, her eyes wide, watching him as she carefully considered his proposal.

“I…I think I just need to walk this off is all, and, I dunno. The alienage isn’t far from Gamlen’s. I might as well, right?”

_Idiot._ _Bloody, Maker-forsaken idiot._

“You can give my door one last test before you’re off,” Merrill laughed awkwardly, “Give it a good thrust or two. For good measure.”

If Carver still had a drink he would have choked on it, but instead his face grew warmer than it already was, trying not to laugh but also not appear so mortified at the same time as he breathed, “Please tell me you’re doing it on purpose this time.”

Merrill burst into a fit of laughter at his words, earnest tears forming at the corners of her sage eyes as she regained her composure.

“Not bad, right?” she appraised, still laughing, “I think I’ve got the hang of it now. It sort of makes things easier, doesn’t it? Not that… not that things are  _ hard _ when I’m around you, I mean. Oh  _ Creators _ , that didn’t come out right. That time I didn’t mean it, I swear! It just slipped out, I just-”

Merrill dissolved into another fit of laughter, and Carver laughed right along with her this time, his laugh more exasperated, enamored with Merrill in all her mirth, wondering what in the world he was going to do with whatever it was that he felt for her and how he’d just have to take it with him, for now, and figure the rest out later… if fate called for it, anyhow.

_ We make quite the pair, don’t we? _ Carver was hardly of a mind to wonder what the others thought of them now, giggling like a gaggle of children by the Hanged Man’s door. When Merrill finally regained control of herself, she looked up at Carver, more confident than he’d ever seen her before, and she offered her arm.

“Into the night, then?” she said, her expression betraying her inner worry, realizing whatever boldness she was riding might wear off soon like a pumpkin-turned-carriage come midnight. 

“Lead the way, m’lady,” Carver rejoined, playing along, equally afraid that whatever easiness they’d stumbled into together would fast dissolve with his drunkenness, but curious enough to see where it led.

Carver looped his free arm in Merrill’s and, without a backward glance, left the tavern.

* * *

There was something different about being alone - out here, now - that made Carver feel… different, somehow. Perhaps it was the drink, or perhaps it was because it was the first time that he and Merrill had gone anywhere alone, and on purpose, without the others. Merrill hung onto Carver’s arm with both hands, unafraid to lean into him as they turned off Lowtown’s main thoroughfare and onto the backstreets, Carver nibbling at the bread she gave him with his free hand. 

“ _ Has _ the door been okay?” Carver asked after a moment, mouth full of bread, “I meant to come by to check, I just-”

Carver trailed off, unsure of how to finish. Could he tell her how many times he’d considered it but didn’t? Would that paint him as pathetic or just inconsiderate? But before he could decide how to keep up his end of the argument, Merrill responded.

“No more incidents, if that’s what you mean,” she said, “I’m still not sure who did it, or  _ why _ , though it’s kept me up some nights.”

“I’m glad they haven’t been back,” was all he could think to say, “Whoever they were, anyway.”

“I think the wards helped. I just feel so  _ stupid _ for not having set them in the first place, I just-”

“You didn’t think you’d have to,” Carver guessed, though judging by Merrill’s silence he figured he was right. “I don’t blame you for wanting hope to will out. Maybe they’ll come around, in time.”

Carver knew nothing of elves, only knowing a handful that were hired as local farmhands in Lothering. There was hardly an alienage there, the elves living more like refugees than anything else. He’d seen the one in Denerim, once, when trading with his father, but beyond that had no point of reference, and hoped his words were not empty if not full of good intentions.

“Perhaps. Who knows?” Merrill sighed, “I can see why they feel the way they do, I just wish they knew just how much of an outsider I am even among the Dalish - how much of an outsider I _was._ As much as I want to restore our history, it’s not like I was welcome with my own people, either. Kind of ironic, really. The elves here revile me for being Dalish, assuming I think I’m better than them because I _know_ more than they do about being elvhen, or so they think. And yet it’s _because_ I want to restore a part of our lost history that my clan banished me.”

Merrill came to a standstill, stopping Carver in his tracks, nearly tripping over himself in the process, still not entirely sober. Swallowing the last of the bread, Carver stood about face, now looking Merrill head on, placing his thumb beneath Merrill’s soft chin as gently as his balance would allow, tilting her head just so until that their gazes met.

“It’s their loss,” he said, his head suddenly clearer now, though muddled all the same, nervous with just how close they were standing, with how  _ bold _ he was being, though his actions felt almost out of his control, as if his inner desires had more of a hold on him than his better judgment did. “If anyone thinks less of you it’s because… it’s because they’re  _ wrong _ .”

“Wrong?” Merrill laughed, though her eyes never left his, her green irises almost silver in the moonlight. Carver still felt like the idiot, wishing he could muster whatever words were just beyond his grasp, unable to truly voice whatever it is he felt to be true about the woman standing before him.

“Yes,” he affirmed, realizing if he couldn’t find the right words that he’d at least stand behind the ones he’d already said. “Dead wrong.”

Before he could question himself or before Merrill could prod further, or question his sanity, Carver turned round again and, taking Merrill’s hand this time, led them through a shortcut to the alienage, bypassing a few major streets where gangs were known to lurk for passersby to pickpocket. Without word Merrill followed, though he could feel her nervous laughter at his back, unsure if she was laughing with him, or… he really didn’t want to know. But as the alcohol wore off the more he just wanted to bring Merrill to her door, safe and sound, and not speak another word until he was sure he would not make a fool of himself.  _ Again _ .

“But would they be? How do you know?” Merrill asked, not so much accusing Carver but more so doubting herself, her expression crestfallen as she followed him, running to keep up.

“Because…” 

This time Carver stopped, his arm dropping at his side as he turned to face Merrill in full. They stood on the threshold of the main thoroughfare again, Merrill’s face half hidden in shadow, the other swathed in silver, her wide eyes twinkling in the moonlight. As words failed him, the last of the ale coursed through Carver as courage as he gently approached her, reading her movements as he inched closer, seeing that she did not flinch, she did not move away, nor did her eyes leave his - wide and wondering but curious all the same, trying to calculate his next move, anticipating it, but not dreading it, almost inching closer herself, as if to help him bridge the gap.

Before the thought could register, before the idea even took proper root in his mind, Carver bent down and pressed his lips to hers. He hadn’t realized how often he’d thought of this, how often he’d wondered what it might be like, but she was still so surprisingly sweet, her lips almost cold in the evening air but just as eager under his gentle insistence, parting ever so slightly as he pulled her closer.

Merrill stilled as he pulled away, but only just, his face close enough to register even the smallest of movements in her features, every flicker of her eyes. Her gaze roamed his face, as if memorizing it, her hands gently roaming the length of his arms as Carver’s own hands gently grasped her waist, their bodies flush, wondering if he could somehow tug her closer, as if they could not be close enough.

“I-” Merrill started, biting her lip. Her eyes watched Carver’s mouth for a tick, as if contemplating kissing him again in lieu of speaking, before shaking her head, relenting, “You said you’d found something worthwhile, but wasn’t sure if it would still be here when you got back.”

Carver blinked before realizing what it was she meant, his head clear enough now to remember their earlier conversation.

“I found something too, I think,” she continued, her gaze intent, “I just… I’m not sure if it will  _ come back. _ ”

There was nothing he could say to sway her fears, but some baser part of him felt light with knowing how she felt, that what he’d been convinced was a silly infatuation might in fact be something more, and at least not something one-sided. Part of him only wanted to drink Merrill in, relish in being this close to her, finally, after waiting so long. 

“I could tell you that if there were anything worth coming back for, it would be you, Merrill,” he heard himself say, his voice huskier than intended, as if his voice were just as nervous as he felt, “But I would be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid.”

Merrill’s wide eyes flicked between his, still silver as they stood beneath the waning moon, the chill growing warmer in their closeness. 

“Well then,” she answered bracingly, “Perhaps you can at least take this with you.”

Merrill stood on tip-toe and kissed the side of his mouth, her lips lingering over the hollow of his cheek, her breath warm on his skin. 

“One for the road,” she said, whisper-soft, before pressing another kiss to his mouth. 

And in that moment, Carver wished morning would never come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me so long. I went back and forth about how the end of this would play out (plus had my wisdom teeth taken out so I was out of commission for a bit...) and am still unsure of the number of chapters this will ultimately end up being, though a couple more feels right to me at the moment. I guess we'll see if self-quarantining inspires anything else in me and play it by ear ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Feeling nostalgic, I decided to boot up DA2 again and, much like randomly encountering Cole's dialogue about Blackwall's crush on Josie in Inquisition that inspired my fic "Splendor of Lost Hearts", I was inspired by some in-game dialogue I'd never heard before that led me to believe Carver might have had an innocent little crush on Merrill. And 48 hours later, here we are...


End file.
